


Adhere to Me

by toomuchplor



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-08-11
Updated: 2006-08-11
Packaged: 2017-10-12 01:41:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/119387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/toomuchplor/pseuds/toomuchplor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"Jesus, what did Carson say to you?" John asked, stunned. "Did he tell you that you were about to get cancer or something?"</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Adhere to Me

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to iykwim for audiencing. I'm tempted to say something self-defeating here about first fics in a new fandom, etc. etc., but I won't! Dammit! General spoilers for S2, nothing specific.

"What is it?" John straightened his leg out of the quad stretch and rotated his ankle absently as Rodney approached. Beside him, Ronon was going through his own warm-up and stretching routine -- which mostly consisted of leaning against the wall and watching John's contortions with derisive amusement.

"What is what?" asked Rodney, glancing over his shoulder as though John might possibly be addressing someone else.

"What's going on?" John asked patiently while he hauled his right elbow up and pulled it behind his head.

"What?" said Rodney again, shortly. "What are you talking about?"

"You came to see me because…" prompted John, changing to his other elbow.

"You think I came here to see you?" said Rodney, eyes wide and incredulous. "I'm really not sure why people call me the arrogant one."

It was then that John realized Rodney was wearing track pants and sneakers with his usual micro-fiber shirt. "You came to -- go jogging with us?" he extrapolated, painfully.

"Carson wants my blood pressure down," said Rodney huffily. "I tried to explain to him that my constant hypertensive state is a result of the pressure of being the only intelligent person on this entire expedition, but he just told me he would pull me from our off-world team unless I followed his so-called orders."

"There's a fitness session for non-military personnel on Tuesday and Thursday mornings," John said hopefully.

"Run by Cadman, no thank you," Rodney concluded. He was bouncing on his toes as he spoke, but John couldn't figure out if this was Rodney's way of limbering up or merely a side effect of his irritation. "Are you trying to imply that I can't keep up with you and Ronon? Because military training aside, I have to tell you that the human body is capable of immense feats if the mind driving it is equally capable of producing the right amount of determination. I think you can deduce from that that I won't have any problems keeping pace with you. Mind over matter." This last was chased by a confident chin lift and a wry smile.

"Uh, okay," said John while Ronon's mouth twisted playfully. "Let's go."

To be fair, Rodney kept pace with them all through the first leg of their run. Every time John glanced over, Rodney managed a smirk of triumph, though it became more and more strained as Ronon gradually ratcheted up the tempo. Rodney's breath was rasping more and more loudly, punctuated by the occasional moment when he was obviously summoning a bit more much-needed mind power to combat his body's growing pain and resistance. John was about to lay odds that Rodney's excursion into the world of cardiovascular fitness would end spectacularly with a stress-induced myocardial infarction when suddenly Rodney halted in his tracks. John slowed and stopped, jogging on the spot to keep his heart rate up while turning to make sure that Rodney wasn't actually dead.

He was leaning, hands splayed flat against the wall, while his sides heaved and his face dripped sweat onto the floor. He was an alarming shade of pink, but he did seem to be alive, so John jogged closer. "Perfect," wheezed Rodney as he stood up and wrapped his arm around his ribs, apparently nursing a massive stitch in his side. "That's exactly the work-out I needed."

"It's been five minutes," John pointed out, "and we haven't hit our stride yet."

"I'm not combat personnel," said Rodney, between gasps. "I'm not about to become obsessive about this like you fanatics."

"Okay," John said dryly, watching a droplet of sweat roll down into the soft divet under Rodney's earlobe. "Good try, though. Mind over matter." And John turned and ran off after Ronon.

* * *

Teyla was showing Rodney the proper grip on a fighting pole and for a moment John was unable to do anything other than process the odd beauty of Rodney's big broad hands splayed awkwardly along the smooth length of wood. Then John snapped back to reality and realized what was actually happening in front of him.

"You're giving Rodney lessons?" he asked, dropping his duffel bag near the entrance where he stopped short seconds earlier.

"He asked for instruction," answered Teyla, simply.

"It's actually not unlike hockey," said Rodney, smug. "The spread of the hands, the balancing point of the stick"--

\--"The ice skates," added John, lifting an eyebrow, "the penalty box, the helmets..."

"Should I be wearing a helmet?" asked Rodney, completely ignoring John's very funny words. His mouth twisted with worry. "Because I don't think a brain-injured chief scientist is going to benefit Atlantis as a whole."

"There are four basic defensive positions," said Teyla, disregarding both of them. "First, there is the stance we call teriposo, which means 'dancing minnow'."

"Which is a bit of a misnomer because the whole point is to stay immobile," supplied John helpfully, toeing out of his shoes and socks while watching Rodney try to emulate Teyla's easy stance. His skin, pale from being indoors so much, almost matched the fine hue of the pole he was holding.

"Is he going to stand here the whole time?" Rodney asked shortly, meaning John.

"Colonel Sheppard and I usually spar around this time of day," said Teyla. "He will wait until we have finished our lesson."

"I will?" grumbled John, but still he obediently sat down on the mat and watched Rodney's attempts become a frozen dancing minnow.

"When do I get two poles?" asked Rodney, giving up halfway through his first credible effort.

"When you are comfortable with one pole," answered Teyla.

"Did Sheppard start with one?" asked Rodney, now planting his pole on the mats and leaning against it, bored.

"Colonel Sheppard has had many years of combat training."

"Oh, come on," yelped Rodney, straightening with indignation. "It's physics! It's a really big game of pool! I can skip all this infantile 'wax on, wax off' stuff. Let's fight!"

"I'll fight you," John offered from his vantage point on the floor.

"That is not wise," Teyla objected. "Dr. McKay is not adequately prepared for the rigors of sparring yet."

"I'll kick your butt with one pole tied behind my back," said John, bounding to his feet and taking a stick from Teyla's hands.

"Your trash talk is just pathetic," said Rodney, rolling his eyes. He tossed his pole from one hand to the other, only fumbling it a little bit. "So, how do we sta--"

John lunged and knocked Rodney's pole out of his hand.

"Ow, ow, ow!" shouted Rodney, waving one hand in the air. "You idiot, you broke my metatarsal!"

"Did not," John said as he stooped to retrieve Rodney's stick. He handed it over while Rodney glowered. "Come on, I'll warn you this time."

"Colonel Sheppard, this is not how we teach the art of --"

"I slipped a disc. I slipped a disc and I broke my ass!" Rodney groaned from the floor, where John's second hit behind the knees had landed him.

"It's impossible to break your ass," John smiled easily, twitching his stick in a manly version of baton twirling.

"And yet you managed to do it for me," Rodney grouched, rolling to a sitting position and wincing as his tailbone made contact with the mat.

"Dance, minnow, dance!"

"Oh, oh, yes, very funny, Colonel." Rodney staggered to his feet and headed for the door.

John grinned at the sight of the door sliding shut on the form of McKay limping towards the infirmary, then glanced over to see Teyla watching him with disapproval. "What?"

"You should not discourage him."

"He was just looking for an excuse to get out of here," John shrugged, waving away her objection. "I provided one."

"He was trying very hard," Teyla protested. "It is good that Dr. McKay is making an effort to acknowledge his connection to his body."

"He's only doing it because Carson threatened medical suspension from active duty if he doesn't get his blood pressure under control," John told her, his grin fading into annoyance. "If he'd just swallow his pride and join the civilian fitness training class, he'd be fine."

When John looked up at Teyla again, she was giving him a steady look somewhere between confusion and frustration. John decided to ignore it in favor of hitting things with sticks.

* * *

Rodney's breakfast tray consisted of four sausages, half a plateful of scrambled eggs, four slices of bacon, and a huge mug of steaming coffee.

Of course, it wasn't the size of his meal that was note-worthy -- Rodney prided himself on consuming large amounts of food on a constant basis -- but the fact that he was eating in the mess hall. He was eating in the mess hall when other people were there. He was, in point of fact, eating breakfast in the mess hall during breakfast time and John was beginning to wonder if this was an Atlantean sign of the apocalypse.

"You're up -- late," John ventured, watching Rodney settle opposite him.

"Actually, I slept eight hours last night," Rodney snipped back, showering salt over his plate. "I got up at six o'clock and I did sit-ups and push-ups and then I came here for breakfast."

"Jesus, what did Carson say to you?" John asked, stunned. "Did he tell you that you were about to get cancer or something?"

Rodney was too busy eating to reply but he managed a remarkably cranky look between mouthfuls.

"First jogging, then stick-torture with Teyla, and now -- sleeping? Eating meals that don't come wrapped in foil?"

Rodney waved a hand, either saying 'go on, you flatter me' or 'my eggs are hot and they're burning my mouth'.

"But if you're really trying to take better care of yourself you could start by easing up on the protein intake," John continued. "You don't even have a glass of juice or a slice of toast there."

"Carbs spike my blood sugar and then I crash. Do you really see what I could do to the city in a state of hypoglycemic dementia?"

"Demen-- hey, is that what happened on the mission last week when you told that tribal leader that he was a moron who was…what was it, 'actively shouting out for the hand of Darwinian selection to strike him down'?"

"No!" Rodney exclaimed, wiping his mouth and taking a slug of coffee. "That was my objective scientific observation."

John nodded as though this were perfectly reasonable and drank some more of his own juice. Once Rodney's feeding frenzy had slowed to human levels, John spoke again. "Will I see you in Teyla's dojo later on?"

"Stick fighting is a bit too low-impact for me," Rodney said as he licked his fingers clean.

"So, jogging tonight with Ronon?" prompted John wickedly.

"I thought I'd hit the gym after breakfast," Rodney replied casually. "Pump some weights, that sort of thing."

"Yeah? Me too," John lied. In truth, it'd been about a week since his last trip to the gym and he was probably due anyway.

"Good," said Rodney, almost glassy-eyed with the strain of trying to be manly and courteous all at once -- or maybe just from the amount of grease he'd just eaten. Apparently it was the latter, because the next words he spoke were, "Jesus. That was disgusting."

"I was wondering when you'd notice," John answered genially.

* * *

Rodney failed at the gym too, though not nearly as spectacularly as he'd failed in his other fitness endeavors. John might have been taking pleasure in Rodney's newfound lust for exercise, but he wasn't cruel either, so he kept the marines at bay by insinuating himself into the position of Rodney's personal trainer.

"You're pretty strong," John said, impressed. With Rodney's build it shouldn't have been too surprising, but John was still amazed to see the kind of upper body power that Rodney possessed naturally.

"Zelenka always gets me to open his pickle jars," Rodney said, wiping perspiration from his upper lip before reaching up for the barbell again.

"Really?"

"Of course not."

John smiled in spite of himself, spotting Rodney and watching the neck of his shirt grow damp. Rodney might be strong, but he had no endurance whatsoever. He'd only done two and a half sets and already he was flushed, panting, and sweaty.

Also, his shirt kept riding up when he lifted his arms.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, I'm about done here," said Rodney, setting the barbell back down with a grunt.

"You still have five more reps," John protested.

"I just remembered a thing in the lab," said Rodney vaguely. As he left, John noticed he was limping a little, either from yesterday's sparring session or the jog with Ronon.

* * *

For lunch, Rodney had a hamburger patty without the bun, tossed salad swimming in ranch dressing, a pile of limp green beans, and a huge mug of coffee.

"You're here," John said.

"It's lunchtime, where else would I be?"

"Well, this is normally when we see Miko scurrying in here to retrieve your breakfast for you," John answered, baffled.

"Yes, well. She wouldn't know what to get me, she always makes some stupid mistake."

"Like bringing you fries or a piece of carrot cake?" John asked slyly.

"Carbs spike my --"

"Blood sugar," finished John, "and then you get all demented. I know. I'm just saying, your hypoglycemic diet might, to the untrained eye, look a lot like the Atkins diet."

Rodney buried his face in his mug, tilting half the contents down his throat. He was stalling.

"It's very effective for weight loss," John said. "If you ignore the part where it puts stress on your heart and your kidneys."

"What are you, the poster boy for the Canada Food Guide now?" Rodney snapped, poking his finger into John's pudding cup.

"Hey," John said, watching Rodney lick the butterscotch off his hand. "I'm just saying. It might not be the best way to get Carson's rubber stamp."

"You know, McKays are all big-boned. You should see my sister Jeannie, she's built like an ox."

"Oh, please introduce us next time we're earth-side," John drawled. "She sounds like a looker."

Rodney's only response was a dark look, which melted into something more akin to a pout as he surveyed his lunch again. "I love starch," he sighed longingly.

"I'll remember to bring you back a potato the first time the team goes off-world without you," John promised with a mean grin, rising to his feet.

"Oh-- shut up," grouched Rodney, dejectedly lighting into his bun-less burger.

* * *

When Rodney showed up for a second session of running torture, John became genuinely concerned. "I'll talk to Lorne," John offered, watching Rodney puff his way through a hamstring stretch, which really should in no way count as a high-stress activity. "I'll see about getting another civvie fitness class together in the evenings, one run by someone else."

"Not necessary," said Rodney, grunting as he switched legs.

"Necessary," corrected Ronon, watching with more than his usual distaste.

"You're not going to make any real progress like this, McKay," John announced regretfully. "If Beckett's serious about your blood pressure, then you have to --"

"Are we talking or running?" Rodney asked archly, though his annoyance was limited by the panting.

"Running," Ronon decided for them, and took off.

Rodney only made it to the end of the first catwalk before shouting something about needing to check on an experiment and limping back towards his lab. John watched him go, torn between pity and laughter.

* * *

"Can you prescribe a diet?"

Carson looked up, startled. "Are you watching your waistline, Colonel?" he asked.

"Not me. For McKay. The guy's going to kill himself at this rate."

"I didn't realize you were so concerned about Dr. McKay's health."

"I'm not," John said, abruptly. "You are."

"Oh, aye?" Carson countered, beginning to look more and more confused. "Well, then, why is it that you're the one who's asking about it?"

"You're the one who has him getting beaten with sticks and stuffing his face with sausages!" John argued, feeling a surprising rush of heated anger.

"I'm doing what, exactly?" Carson asked, stunned.

"You -- with his blood pressure!" John exploded. "McKay's so worried, I actually caught him doing sit-ups! In his lab!" He couldn't quite manage to convey the full horror and sheer wrongness of this to Carson, but he had to try.

"Rodney's blood pressure is perfectly healthy, given his baseline indications," Carson answered wildly, seemingly unsure of how this had become an argument. "If anything, his hypertension has resolved somewhat over the last year or so. You're the one getting him fit with your off-world missions, not me." He cleared his throat and blinked. "Not that I would tell you that, because it's a breach of patient confid--"

John waved away Carson's belated panic. "You mean to tell me that you didn't threaten McKay with pulling him off active duty?"

"Nothing of the kind!" Carson exclaimed.

"So why am I shouting at you?" John asked, more of himself than of Carson.

"I haven't the slightest notion, but might I suggest you direct your anger elsewhere?" Carson angled back, hiding a smile.

"Maybe I will," John huffed, still running on indignation.

"And a good day to you, then, Colonel," Carson nodded politely, and went back to his paperwork.

* * *

As it turned out, John didn't get a chance to seek an outlet for his newly discovered anger. He'd barely gotten three steps down the corridor towards Rodney's lab when Rodney himself appeared around the corner. John didn't have time to speak, or even open his mouth, because suddenly Rodney had John by the arm and was hauling him, off-balance, into a nearby transporter. When the doors hissed open again, it was onto a little-used pier off the south of Atlantis.

"Wha--" began John, but Rodney was hauling him outside and John was distracted yet again by how surprisingly strong Rodney was. He had John all but tripping over his own feet as he stumbled out into the sunlight.

"I have had it!" Rodney burst as John staggered upright, having stopped about three feet from the end of the pier.

"Had what, a psychotic break?" John asked grumpily, rubbing his arm where Rodney had squeezed too much.

"I've had it with this -- this completely pointless exercise in masochism!" Rodney wasn't making eye contact; rather, he was raking one hand through his hair and staring maniacally out at the white peaks of the waves. "I hurt all over, I'm covered in bruises, I'm starving and greasy, and I can't take it anymore!"

John opened his mouth to point out that Rodney really must be insane in that case, because according to Carson, this was Rodney's fault and no one else's. Of course, he didn't manage to get any farther than drawing in a breath before Rodney went on.

"This is all your fault, anyway," Rodney announced, pivoting to face John accusatorily.

"How is --" John began, indignantly.

"You and -- and your running, and your -- your stupid marines, and your stupid smile." Rodney gestured wildly. "I mean, I thought maybe I could make some changes, adapt to different standards, but now I'm wondering why the hell should I be the one to adapt? I mean, what's wrong with you deciding to accept something that doesn't fit your ridiculous American neo-Aryan genetically superior --"

"What. The hell. Are you talking about?" John bit out, now pushed past the point of thinking it would all come clear if he just let Rodney keep ranting.

"I'm talking about you!" Rodney shouted, as thought this were blazingly obvious. "You and your hard-bodied boy toys and how no one who's just, well, normal has a chance of getting your attention because no, we're just not athletic enough, we can't wrestle a moose into submission with only our pinkie fingers, and --"

Rodney was actually waving his little fingers in John's face, and that made something snap inside John. He seized Rodney's hands and pushed them both flat over Rodney's mouth, something he'd been longing to do since about five seconds after he'd met the guy.

"Hard-bodied boy toys?" he repeated, starting to wonder if he was the one having a psychotic break. "No!" John exclaimed, seeing that Rodney was trying to talk through his hands. "No words! Just -- let me figure this out." Rodney's eyes were narrowing dangerously, but John felt that if his Beretta was going to stay safely in his thigh holster, he'd better keep Rodney silent for at least another thirty seconds. "You -- were doing all of this for me," John deduced slowly.

Rodney rolled his eyes and nodded.

"Because you thought that I wanted you to be up to military standards of fitness?" John continued, more confused at this part.

Rodney's head shook from side to side under John's grip.

"Because you wanted my attention?" John tried.

Rodney's head wobbled a bit this time, somewhere between a 'yes' and a 'no', which John interpreted as 'the idiot is getting closer.'

"You wanted my attention," John repeated, and released Rodney's hands, sensing that most of the fight had gone out of him. "Why?"

Rodney stretched his mouth showily and rubbed his lips with the back of one hand. "Because," he said, deliberately slowing down his words, "I deduced that the only way you would ever view me in a certain light was if I met your pretty-boy standards." John's jaw must have dropped pretty spectacularly at this, because Rodney laughed harshly. "Oh come on, Sheppard, I've seen the way you look at Ronon and Lorne."

"How do I look at them?" John asked, feeling his eyes go wide.

"Like they're Chaya and Buffy and Tom Welling all wrapped up in one muscle-bound package."

"Okay, first of all, I do not," John protested, reaching out to bracket Rodney's shoulders, taking a step closer. "And second of all, what makes you think you needed to do anything at all to get my attention?"

John could see the knee-jerk reaction in Rodney, the tension wanting to snap into his body, the sarcasm ready to leave his lips, but somehow it all didn't happen, and Rodney instead met John's steady gaze full-on. "So -- I have your attention?" Rodney asked, testing.

"Yeah," said John, simply, and leaned in.

"God," whispered Rodney against John's mouth, some seconds later. "I have to go and eat a dozen donuts." John tightened his grasp on Rodney's hair and tilted his head down to kiss Rodney's neck. "Right after I, you know, burn some calories with you in your quarters."

"Glad I could contribute to the cause," John answered smugly.


End file.
